Sleeping with the Dead Fox

I'd give anything right now to be wrapped in a quilt, tucked into a nook, and able to feel my toes. I memorized every bump in the night this building makes: the slow drawl of wind whistling through the tooth-gapped boards, to the creature upstairs systematically leaving and coming with nuts, seeds, and berries for winter. I'm glad I never saw it, but the five hops from board to board and the trickling noise of what sounded like a copper penny bouncing off nails, will stay with me. So will the coyotes who got the little calf which the mother is till belloring for. Gloved fingers write, toes triple wrapped fight for friction, moist breath gives temporary relief to a red nose. Sun where are you, devour this fog and cold, melt the ice from the motorcycle seat.













Black rainbows of grime outlined in white sit at my finger tips. No deodorant for six days. My face does not look the same in the mirror, each whisker coated in a memory of beauty and newness. Face burnt by autumn wind and sleepless nights. The sky seems closer here but the moon and stars have been shy. I'm nearing the destination, a bit frightened this book flap will close. I wish you could have been on this adventure, felt the awe, rejuvenated by space, parched by moments.